Mary clutched her hot, cruel head. What was wrong with her? How could she wish illness on her dearest friend out of jealousy for a man who didn’t even love her? A man who’d never been interested in her in the first place? A man who preferred gold to silver, and why shouldn’t he?
Mary caught her breath and found her bearings on Main. The lights were on in Dixon’s Drugs, open every Sunday at eleven.
Mary headed inside, past the soda fountain and the cosmetics and the household goods, back to where the proprietary medications were stored close to the prescription counter.
The pharmacist, a heavyset man in his sixties with thick gray hair and thicker glasses, talked to a patient wearing an overcoat and a fedora. On the counter, a hand-lettered sign read “Pharmacist wanted. Inquire with Mr. Dixon.”
Mary blinked her heavy eyes. If only she could apply, be hired, get away.
What on earth was she thinking? She wasn’t even a pharmacist. Oh, she needed aspirin badly.
But getting away...
Why not? She was a secretary, qualified and experienced. She could work anywhere in the country. Shipyards were bustling from Bath, Maine, to Charleston, South Carolina, from Seattle, Washington, to San Diego, California. Even on the Great Lakes.
Why did she need to be in Boston? She didn’t. What was keeping her here? Nothing.
The pharmacist slipped an amber glass vial into a paper bag. “Your consumption of codeine has increased greatly the past few months.”
Mary backed away, not wanting to intrude on a private conversation.
“I’m aware of that,” the patient said in a familiar, cultured voice. “My nerves have been acting up lately, the pains in my arms and legs.”
Mary recognized that voice, the slight frame in the well-cut coat and expensive hat.
The pharmacist shook his head, his jowls shifting. “See that you cut back. You don’t want to become an addict.”
“We wouldn’t want that, would we?” With a wry chuckle, Mr. Weldon Winslow, naval architect, slapped down some cash and grabbed the paper bag.
Mary’s mouth went dry. He was addicted to codeine?
She spun away and slipped down an aisle, her head lowered. The jittering, the shaking. What had Agent Sheffield said? “Maybe you should see a doctor about that.” He knew—he knew what the shaking meant.
How many times had Mary seen Mr. Winslow swallow something furtively or hide small objects?
Palpitations shivered in Mary’s chest. What did this mean to the investigation? Was Mr. Winslow’s addiction causing him to make errors others interpreted as sabotage? Or was it driving him to abandon common sense and commit sabotage? Addicts often turned to crime to support their habits, didn’t they?
Mr. Winslow’s steps approached, and Mary angled her back away from him, pretending to examine a bottle in her hand. Milk of magnesia? She didn’t need milk of magnesia.
This was a new clue, an important clue. But should she report it? Agent Sheffield already suspected something. Let him discover it on his own. Mary couldn’t afford to get another innocent man locked up. For goodness’ sake, Mr. Winslow had a wife and children who depended on him. How could she ruin four lives with her meddling?
It was high time she retreated. She needed to keep her suspicions and gossip and nonsensical theories to herself.
Tears scalded her eyes. Why hadn’t she left well enough alone?
31
Saturday, November 8, 1941
Lately the sea felt more stable to Jim than land. Here on theAtwood, things ran as they should, but once he stepped off the gangplank, he felt ill.
In the captain’s office, Jim stared down into his cup. The gentle motion of the ship at pier rippled his coffee, the same deep brown as Mary’s hair. He wanted to go back to sea.
Two weeks for resupply and repairs, they said. The storms had ripped off life rafts and ladders and lockers on the deck. The Navy Yard was also replacing the old Y-gun with six new K-guns to fire depth charges. Since the Navy needed every possible destroyer on escort duty, work proceeded quickly.
Lieutenant Commander Durant flipped a page in Jim’s report. “Everything looks fine, Mr. Avery.”
“Thank you, sir.”
